The Slugger
by owlcroft
Summary: A little talk about McCormick's experiences in prison.


A/N: Many thanks to the readers of these stories, most especially to those who read them before they're posted and catch the errors.

THE SLUGGER

by

Owlcroft

"Pow!" McCormick swung furiously, then shaded his eyes to follow the track of the non-existent ball. "That guy can really powder a ball. His stance is something else, too." He carefully spread his feet again, waved an imaginary bat a few times, then swung ferociously.

Hardcastle looked up from his scorecard from that afternoon's game at Dodger Stadium and squinted at the younger man outlined against the setting sun. "That's not a half-bad swing yourself, ya know."

"Hey," Mark waggled the bat again, "they called me Slugger McCormick in Quentin." He took another vicious hack at the empty air. "Bam! Over the bleachers and into the parking lot." He noticed a silence from across the patio and glanced at the judge. "Okay, they didn't really call me 'slugger', but I did hit quite a few."

The silence continued, markedly, and McCormick regarded the judge quizzically. "Hey, are you still touchy about me mentioning prison? I kinda thought we were all past that."

"Oh, yeah, sure. That's not a problem for me." Hardcastle tugged his Dodger cap down a little further, avoiding the younger man's gaze.

"I know I don't talk about it a lot." Mark strolled closer to the glass-topped table and tugged out one of the chairs. "I don't actually _avoid _it, either, though."

"Well, I've heard all about the mashed potatoes and the weird roomies . . . and the scary times at night. I don't really feel like I need to hear any more." There was a faint tone of defensiveness in Hardcastle's voice.

"Well, you're gonna." Mark settled himself in the chair, hands on knees. "The ball field is out back of the main yard, mostly just dirt, but some grass and real bases. The Marin countryside," he waved a hand, eyes distant, "was all around us and you could see Mount Tam as clear as anything. You know how beautiful that area is, Judge. And we'd go out every afternoon and have a couple of pick-up games. Sometimes, on weekends, we'd get a beer league team or some semi-pros in to play against." He lowered his head and grinned at the man across the table from him. "No road games for us."

There was a silence from across the table, but it appeared to be an interested silence.

"We always told the new guys that the mound was where we'd buried a really bad umpire. Some of them even pretended to believe it!" He shook his head in amusement. "It's a bad place, a real bad place, but there were a few breaks from the horrors. All that kept me sane," he added, checking to see if the judge would pick up the old joke between them.

He didn't. But he did ask, "Good times in San Quentin?" Hardcastle looked at him askance.

"There were times when all you were thinking about was getting that double play. Or when you got lucky and got a really good book off the cart or the mystery meat wasn't half-bad. You know? No, of course you don't," he added in exasperation. "I dunno – maybe what I'm trying to say is that there are a few things that I like to remember. Like seeing the Marin hills all pink in the sunset, or a couple of gang rivals working together on base-running." He shrugged and smiled slightly. "Does that make any sense?"

The judge nodded ruminatively. "Yeah. I guess it does."

The McCormick smile widened a bit. "Aren't you supposed to say something about how it's not _supposed _to be fun or how it's _rehabilitation _not _recreation_?"

"No. I think," said Hardcastle slowly, rubbing his chin, "I think I'm glad you maybe have a few good memories of those two years."

Mark sat staring at him for a few moments, then reached for the scorecard. "The Astros put up a fight, didn't they? Hey," he looked up hopefully. "The Mets are in town starting Friday night. That ought to be a great series. Maybe," he turned his attention back to the card in his hand, but peeped slyly up under his brows, "you could get season tickets."

"Are you kiddin'?" growled Hardcastle with a pained and irritated expression. "You have any idea how much they cost? Besides, you have to be on a waiting list for years for the good seats or have somebody leave 'em to you in a will or something." He reached to take the scorecard back and lifted his chin, watching as the sun finally sank below the level of the placid sea. "Nah, I thought maybe we'd donate the team at Q some equipment. We could browse around the sporting goods store tomorrow and pick out some bats and gloves, get a couple dozen balls."

McCormick sat, unmoving, while a slow grin broke out. "And maybe a catcher's mask?" he asked.

"Sure. We'll donate the stuff in the name of Slugger McCormick, in memory of the good times." Hardcastle nodded briskly, then turned back to his scorecard.

_finis_


End file.
